


darling, but who liked this ending? (don't give it away)

by flirtfighting (anyarysm)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, In which the author learns more about herself than she signed up for, Literary references abound, Theater AU, blink-and-you-miss it kinks, the Dyad are assholes in this one, this is more complicated than it had to be but kat said make a choice and stick with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:20:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25646452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anyarysm/pseuds/flirtfighting
Summary: The first play that Ben Solo ever writes is a tragedy. He is perhaps too beholden to his influences to attempt a happ[ier] ending.After Taylor Swift's 'exile'
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 14
Kudos: 46
Collections: Reylo Folklore Flash Fic, Reylo Hidden Gems





	darling, but who liked this ending? (don't give it away)

**Author's Note:**

> After Taylor Swift's 'exile'

_now._

"—Shakespearean tragedy is that in any other story, they would have survived," he slurs, his head thrown back on the couch. Gone is his usual pretense and posturing, the practiced stoicism. Instead, he prods at all the tender, wounded parts in the audience of others. Their affair was a performance anyway, pre-written, informed by recurring motifs in the grand tragedy of things said about him. It's not a surprise she packed them up. "I'd fuck it up any which way."

Two truths and a lie, two things can be true at the same time. Hux says nothing, watches him instead with unreadable eyes. Ben will be back to his usual dour self tomorrow, ever the consummate professional, but tonight—well, how does the cliché go? Misery loves company.

Ben sighs. "I fucking hate the theater."

_then._

The first play that Ben Solo ever writes is a tragedy. (A lover, a dream, a breath forcibly taken, a fire.) The criticism is spliced into the praise when the critics and the public agree that it's the better version of a story already written. Anakin Skywalker would have been the better writer had he not been too practiced at killing his darlings, had he understood mourning. Ben interprets loss differently, understands that it festers. His characters are Heathcliff-meets-Kane's B types, with something of that obsessive compulsion, pitiful if only they weren't such assholes. No matter the setting—the occasional Pinteresque inflections—the McLeodian satirism of aristocratic co-dependence—it's an organic fall from grace. He is perhaps too beholden to his influences to attempt a happ[ier] ending.

The first play that Ben Solo ever writes wins him a Pulitzer, and attention-starved, he chases the high. Writes the same character and the same ending, first for the acclaim (and the comfort), and then as an act of exorcism when the first critique comes in. (He keeps writing the same role.) It's something of an obsessive compulsion, rushing to the exeunt, self-examination; he picks and discards character choices to drive the story, keeps interrogating motivation. But in revising, he can't help but consider the source, hence, the same tragic end.

Four years in, he meets Aurelia Palpatine—("Please, call me Rey," with a proper British lilt and something of a dare)—auditioning for the love interest, an Eve Harrington type, all eyes and all wrong for her. The character was tailored, edged, precision-cut; he wasn't kind, writing it. The whole performance was an indictment of how transactional love is, the evidence in the case. In his head, she was femme fatale blonde hair, red mouth, perhaps a mole. Rey comes in, bare-faced, hair tied up with a silk scarf. But when the words fall from her mouth— _"my, it's a dream come true, huh? The money, the fame—and all because of your Salinger affectations and your mother's money"_ —it's somebody else's words in somebody else's voice. It demands his attention. It cuts through. And the atmosphere shifts—he's suddenly seen—it's _new._

She's cast because of the hunger. She's cast because he rewrites it for her.

> **B:** (betrayed; they read the same thing and arrive at different conclusions) _No—no! you're still holding on. Let go._
> 
> **R:** (resolute, finds the ending untenable) _It doesn't have to go that way._

It's a hit when it comes out, it gets him his first Tony. Part of it is the mellifluous drawl of her delivery at odds with the casual cruelty of his dialogue, but oh, how it cuts to the bone. Part of it is the tension, the resolution—in this one, she walks out but the door doesn't close. But mostly, it's some freshly minted columnist at _The New Yorker,_ reading too much into the text of her casting. "Ben Solo's latest offering maintains a level of cerebral obscurity he is known for, but it is Aurelia Palpatine, in the role of the imagined lover, that imbues it with emotion. Off-stage, it is their coming together—products of a storied rivalry—that is the audience's undoing." Some reviews are less grating—"a welcome departure," otherwise a "refreshing and topical interrogation of the authentic self." It all just cements him as more than the last Skywalker.

_now._

" _—only one who can play this character and you know it."_

Ben stares straight ahead, because he knows this to be true. He fucking wrote it, of course he knows. It doesn't make his acquiescence any easier, just makes it into something he regrets. He should have known better than to re-write the story, knowing full well it's just a whole litany that begs crossing out. Ben has to remind himself to breathe, to chase the air down his lungs and out to keep him from doing something rash, like driving his Jag into a wall, or begging for her back.

" _—you there?_ "

"Yeah, yeah. Just got here. Parking. I'll be right in."

_then._

Nobody catches on until the third time they work together, that while the tropes have changed, it's still the same story. The archetype has refitted around a different question, the answer to which are her expressive eyes, the minute shifts in her expressions better caught on film. But it's always her; he can't help it. Something about the instinctive way she ferrets out motivation is an undeniable draw to him. She picks the words apart and counters his questions. At rehearsal, with the stage lights on, people are drawn to her. In character, Rey carries herself like everyone is at her beck and call—(they are.) She is always gloriously aware of the story—(of the hand that writes it)—and when she's done with it, the narrative is lived in. While everyone was looking, she became the star. Ben is just someone who helps her along.

During break one time, she saunters over to him. She is dressed casually, a sweater french-tucked into jeans, a scarf entwined in the bun her hair is tied in. This is no time for fondness, not time for show. But for the briefest of seconds, he is transported back to that morning, taking too long getting himself ready in front of her mirror, stealing glances of her sleeping naked. He is transported to the night before, rehearsing the subtle confusion of pleasure and pain, marks they will hide, props repurposed for public consumption. Her appearance is always either a mockery or a gift. (Thinking about it now, he wonders whether it was a mask or the way she was. He finds he's never learned to read her as well as she does him.) The way he appears to her is a spotlight trained.

"This doesn't make sense," she says, pointing to a line her character says. In this one, she plays a version of Ariadne, in the minutes before Dionysus finds her. In this one, she has brought her royal bloodline down with the force of her love but it isn't enough. In this one, she gets left. In this one, she will scream her throat raw. "Why won't she take his hand, when he offers it?"

(He knows the answer to that one, but when has his articulation ever done him good?)

"It could be open, you know. She doesn't have to refuse it."

"You could not be a romantic, you know. You don't have to be."

"Hmm, but where's the fun in that?"

_now._

He almost stops when he sees her. She hasn't changed much, his darling girl (—though he's aware it no longer applies.) Her hair's a tad shorter, she's lost some weight. His brows furrow at that. Ben is aware that he is looking at her a little too intensely, but if he's going to be the cliché, then he might as well. He'd be pitiful if he weren't such an asshole. He's a Heathcliff-meets-Kane's B type, if it weren't for pride, he'd have co-opted their lines, "You can’t say no to me because it’s such a relief to have love again and to lie in bed and be held and touched and kissed and adored." But then she catches him looking, and it's a reprimand. It adds insult to injury. It says, "Don't do this, Ben," and even in his head, her voice demands his attention. It cuts through.

She's in the West Coast version of casual, eyelet puffed sleeves and flats. She's dressed for the role before he even knew what that would look like, but maybe it's the age-old question of the chicken and the egg. All that to say that it serves as a crucial point of reference to who they were then and who they are now. She's a better film actress than she ever was on stage, and that's saying something. She's the best thing to happen to Broadway, after all. But there's nothing like a close-up to catch the blink-and-you-miss-it flare of her nose, her shaking bottom lip. The way her eyelashes flutter, the way she blushes. 

All eyes are suddenly on them when his presence registers, like they're certain as if cued that something monumental will happen. She looks to him like she both wants him to move and doesn't, but he's found he never learned to read her as well as she does him.

In his head, he watches himself walk towards her with conviction, the set of his shoulders sure. He will say _hi,_ or perhaps _how have you been_ , or a version of _has it been as hard for you as it has me?_ And he'll have an answer even without having to chase it down a page. Instead, he walks past her with nary a glance, assaulted by memories that resurface. There are things he's always meant to forget about Rey, and things he didn't want to but did—like the way her body has always been attuned to him, or the exact scent of her perfumed pulse points. If he'd been any closer, he knows she would lean in slightly—or would have, at least. If he'd just stretched out his hand, they'd touch.

Anyway, it's too late now. The further in he walks, the more he feels like he's being seen out.

_then._

She's red-faced and laughing, full-bodied in a languid sort of way (—the more he learns of her, the more it shows up in his work.) He watches with an encompassing sort of wonder. He's never thought himself funny, sometimes snarky, mostly aloof. He won't say something he can't edit, hence, the body of work; but with her, all the words come easy, unfiltered by his constant need to auto-correct. He never knew his gut instinct to make someone happy, and yet she is. Rey looks at him like there's everywhere else to be, but it would be an imitation of an imitation. If she were brighter—if he were prone to confusing real life with fiction—he'd look away.

"What?" she asks, still smiling, like she isn't already in on the joke.

His lip is quirked, but it's too sentimental to say why. "Nothing."

Rey moves on knees to where he's stretched out in the carpeted floor of her Upper West Side apartment, though if she'd beckoned, he would have left a trail of gunfire in his wake to get to her. She doesn't stop until she's straddling him, one bare knee on either side, sitting on his lap because she's claimed it. The lamp casts everything else in shadow: the wine glasses on her coffee table, the accolades on the shelf. Her, it casts in light. She is warm-toned and warm where his hands have landed. She's dressed exactly like she would have had it been their fourth play together, a one-act they workshopped in Columbia that never saw a real stage but was raved about. In it, she is all silk chemise and hair that curls where it falls. The set is a living room that is a copy of hers. In it, he play-acted his own protagonist's lines, too raw and too in love to hand it off to somebody else. 

"Hi."

"Hi."

She smiles at him, her hands cradling his face. If he leans into it, it's informed by a whole other history, touch-starved and greedy. "What are you thinking?" she asks, pressing a soft, too-short kiss on his cheekbone. Brushes her nose with his until his crinkles, always a point of insecurity with him, too reminiscent of his father. Makes up for it with an open-mouthed kiss on his jaw. In moments like this, he forgets to remember things for the writing, lives it instead. He breathes her in and feels material. He clutches at her hips and feels real.

"Do you think your grandfather would like me?"

(It's not what he meant to say, but she bursts out laughing and perhaps that's why he does it. He can tell her he loves her another time. If she doesn't know yet—if she hasn't figured it out—she will.)

"Not your smartest move, mentioning my grandfather while I'm grinding on your lap."

"Do you want to stop?" he asks, though it's rather unfair now, when he's nosing at her jaw. When one of his hands trail up her back, under the silk and their trappings. He sucks a kiss a little ways below her ear the way she likes, evidenced by her hand curling in his hair. The instinctive way she ferrets out motivation is an undeniable draw to him, partly because it's reflective. He too knows where to prod for a decision made (with her, it's the side of her rib where his hand lands, curled around her back; or, the top of her breast where he presses his mouth.) He presses her body down as he cants up, and the breath that hitches is answer enough, but it's too small to be seen onstage. It's just for him.

He kisses her fully then. Without ceremony, she opens her mouth to him, pressing into him like she too is touch-starved and greedy. Like she too would like to swallow every gasp, and kiss him and kiss him because this too is performance. There's meaning to make. She pulls his cashmere up, and though he's loath to move away from her, he's adept at rushing to the end. Discards it without a care. The silk stays but everything else goes (—the scrap of lace, his too-expensive jeans, their anxieties, the play-acting.) Soon, [her fingers make it way to his lips](https://twitter.com/supremelindz/status/1290307415162773509), and he takes it the way he takes everything she deigns to offer, swirls his tongue around, solemn eyes. She watches with a slightly open mouth, her breath warm between them. Like a pre-choreographed sequence, he lifts her chemise slightly, her hand landing on his shoulder while the other snakes down. The silence weighs down as he watches.

Slowly, too gingerly, as if the moment can shatter at any point, she touches herself in his audience. She is gentle because he would be, rubs in circles, pretending it's somebody else's hand, his. Slips inside when she leans her forehead on the side of his neck, panting into his ear. Slides another finger in imitation until she's curling into her own cunt because he would. Ben is cradling her head to him now, pressing kisses where he can reach.

"That's it," he whispers when he begins to feel her start to shake. He wraps a hand around her neck gently, an act of lifting in lieu of possession, never having felt more intimate than when he can look into her eyes, apt to giving herself away.

"Ben," she whines.

"That's it, baby," open-mouthed against her neck, his hand cupping her breast. His kisses her deeply as she comes on his lap, relegating breath for later, licking into her mouth because he only knows to be excessive with his affection. When she comes down from her high, she rests her forehead against his, breathing each other's air. Her heaving chest is an answer to a question he doesn't have to ask, but it's too small to be seen onstage. It's just for him.

"Hi," she says, after a while.

"Hi," he answers back with a grin.

"Take me to bed, Solo."

_now._

(Around them, stage hands and crew drop what they're doing to watch. Rey is in armor today, or what constitutes armor where they're both concerned—for her, defense; him, offense—a more tailored version of his English major posturing: an oversized distressed cotton-button down, tucked into fitted trousers. Unbuttoned just enough to hint at lace, glasses she doesn't need. Her mouth is a glassy nude peach.)

> **R:** (snapping) _Your central conceit doesn't work, and that's why we can't get to the end._
> 
> **B:** _Maybe you should try acting, instead of reciting your lines like you're so disinterested. Jesus, we can't yell cut on opening night._

(Rey glares at him, but that's to be expected. He was bound to take a dig at her film career, anyway. In-character for someone for whom an insult is both defense and offense. Never mind that it was him to drive her to it in the first place. Never mind that it was him incapable of giving her something better.)

> **R:** _Can everybody give us five, please?_

(The stage is cleared; lighting is focused. A half-concealed face is an unreliable narrator.)

> **R:** _What is your problem?_ (Her inflections were always a point of pride for his dialogue.)
> 
> **B:** _I just want this to be over with, okay? Let's just get through with it and be rid of each other._
> 
> **R:** (snorts; this is familiar ground) _Right, because that's going to solve everything._ (A beat.) _It's your protagonist that's the problem._
> 
> **B** **:** (exasperated because he knows she's right; he was unkind writing his self-insert) _Oh, we're giving away the end now?_

(Two truths and a lie. This is the most honest he's ever been writing a character. It's her scene partner who is all wrong for it, gentler where the edges are jagged, where his self-flagellation should be coded into, bloodied knuckles. This is the most honest he'll ever be: everyone else was an understudy until she walked in.)

_then._

He doesn't know how he turns all his stories like this, brittle and ugly. All the lines he walks are thin.

On her bed, she holds her anger behind clenched teeth in a way she is never able to on stage. She is electric anytime else, thrumming with such organic energy, she commands space. She is a repository of emotion and narrative. In private, they play off each other, taking cues from body language, words he is no less harsh with. He's the one standing but it's her presence that suffocates. Rey can be cold in her practiced casualness, a precise mask. She can speak him so well because this too is the language she knows.

"Guess this is the end you get, Solo. Good thing you like it fatal."

_now._

In the end, Ben changes the ending. It's a return to form, fleshed out in stark relief. In this one, there is light everywhere. In this one, when she punches the manic lover walking towards her, he licks up the blood from his chin and says, _I searched you out when your screams from the desert roused me._ In this one, the door doesn't close.

Opening night, then. He is watching surreptitiously through the curtains, tracking the audience coming in. The suit is bespoke, but he has to wear it over a body unsure. It doesn't fall across his shoulders well. He feels her stand next to her, and to turn is not in the stage directions. If he's only ever written the same character and the same plot, it's the same tragic end. Maybe it's the end he gets.

Eventually, though, he does turn. Studies her in that flimsy white dress, that intentionally, meticulously mud-stained hem. Looks for the nervous, excited twinkle in her eye when it's five minutes to curtain and she's half-her, half-his (character.) "You're going to be great," he says, quietly, for her ears.

She breathes deeply. "It's a good play, Ben." A beat. "It's a great ending."

"You think?"

She looks up at him.

"Places!"

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> When I first heard "exile," I had a narrative all laid out in my head (a snippet of which can be seen on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/flirtfighting/status/1287411538282737664)). A day before the deadline, the story rejected the conflict, and so I went with what was easier to me: a disjointed, non-linear, _almost stream-of-consciousness if only I committed_ theater AU. This is way more complicated than it had to be, but I hope you like it!
> 
> Special thanks to Jess (@bobaheadshark) and the lovely people who've likewise written beautiful haunting fics inspired by Taylor Swift's _folklore_. The cheerleading eventually got me here. You guys rock!
> 
> References:
> 
> The Pinteresque inflections in my mind writing this is from "Celebration" 
> 
> Wendy McLeod writes dysfunctional, aristocratic co-dependent siblings in "House of Yes"
> 
> "My, it's a dream come true, huh? The money, the fame—and all because of your Salinger affectations and your mother's money" appears in a play I wrote back in college. This is the play I reference, in which Rey is an imagined lover fashioned after Marion Cotillard's character in _Inception_.
> 
> Ariadne x Dionysus dynamics
> 
> "You can’t say no to me because it’s such a relief to have love again and to lie in bed and be held and touched and kissed and adored." (Kane, S. "Crave")


End file.
